We Are Still Becoming

This morning I was listening to something about belief, persistence, the power of our thoughts, and continuing forward even when it feels like we are walking alone.

Something in it stayed with me.

Our mind is the gateway. What we focus on, we get more of.

I started thinking about how much attention we can give to what is wrong. What somebody else is doing. What didn't work out. What we regret. What we're afraid might happen. What we wish we could change.

And I thought about something I've been practicing more intentionally in my own life:

Telling myself the truth and taking responsibility for myself.

My choices. My reactions. My boundaries. What I focus on. And most importantly, what I do next.

I can't control what other people do. I can't control whether they understand me, agree with me, support me, or believe in me.

But I can be responsible for me.

There is freedom in that.

Belief Is Something We Grant Ourselves

We can spend so much time waiting for permission.

Permission to change. Permission to dream bigger. Permission to start again. Permission to forgive ourselves. Permission to become someone we've never been before.

But I'm learning that belief is something we grant ourselves.

I am the permission.

That doesn't mean I don't need other people. Quite the opposite.

I need the women in my life who love me enough to tell me the truth and hold space for me while I figure things out.

This morning, I started thinking about the women I have walked beside for many years.

We have shared our lives.

We know each other's mistakes, fears, and regrets. We've watched one another fall down, get back up, change, grow, grieve, heal, struggle, and begin again.

I don't walk beside other women because I have life figured out.

I don't.

I'm still learning. I'm still practicing. I'm still becoming.

Today I decided to send individual text messages to some of the women in my life. Not a group text. I thought about each woman individually—where she is, what we've walked through together, what I love about her, and what I wanted her to know.

Nearly every one of them responded with such gratitude.

It reminded me of something so simple:

Tell people you care about them. Don't assume they know.

Holding Space for One Another

As women, we don't always need to fix each other.

Sometimes we can't.

Sometimes there aren't any words that will make something better.

Holding space can simply mean:

I see you.

I'm thinking about you.

You don't have to have everything figured out.

I'm still here.

I believe in you.

And sometimes it means saying:

If you can't believe in yourself today, borrow some of my belief in you until you can.

That doesn't mean carrying another woman's life for her. It means walking beside her while she carries her own.

There's a difference.

I want women in my life who are willing to show up for themselves.

Not perfectly.

Not every day with a smile on their face.

Not pretending everything is wonderful when it isn't.

I mean women who keep coming back to themselves.

Women who tell themselves the truth. Women who take responsibility. Women who ask for help. Women who rest when they genuinely need to rest. Women who get back up.

Women who can say:

This road is hard right now, but I'm not giving up on myself.

Those are my kind of women.

This Journey Isn't a Race

Somewhere along the way, we started acting like we're supposed to arrive.

But arrive where?

There is no finish line where suddenly we've mastered life.

We will never perfect this journey. We're supposed to experience it.

Some stretches of the road are beautiful and smooth. The sun is shining, the view is incredible, and everything seems to be falling into place.

Enjoy those stretches.

Breathe them in. Be grateful.

Don't rush past the good because you're already worried about the next hill.

And then there are the climbs.

Those long, steep climbs where you wonder how much farther you have to go. Sometimes you can't even see the top.

Keep going.

Maybe today you take ten steps. Maybe tomorrow you take two. Maybe you need to sit down on the side of the road for a while and catch your breath.

Resting isn't quitting.

And when you finally reach the top, stop for a minute.

Look back.

Look how far you've come.

Look at the woman who made that climb.

Then breathe it in.

Eventually there will be another hill. That's life.

But the hills are teaching us too.

The difficult stretches can show us things about ourselves that the easy roads never could. They teach us perseverance, surrender, and gratitude. They show us who we can count on.

And sometimes, most importantly, they teach us that we can count on ourselves.

Keep Showing Up

Life is short.

Far too short to keep shrinking ourselves.

Far too short to withhold love because we assume somebody already knows how we feel.

I want to surround myself with women who are showing up for themselves.

Women who aren't giving up when the road gets bumpy or when those long climbs seem like they're going to last forever.

Women who understand that we can love and support one another without fixing one another.

Women who celebrate each other's smooth roads and sit beside each other during the climbs.

Women who remind one another:

Keep going.

You're learning.

You're growing.

You're becoming.

And when one of us forgets, the rest of us can hold space until she remembers.

Our minds are powerful.

What we focus on matters.

What we tell ourselves matters.

What we believe about ourselves matters.

So tell yourself the truth.

Take responsibility for your life.

Show up for yourself.

Rest when you need to.

Get back up when you can.

And love your people enough to tell them while you have the opportunity.

When you reach one of those beautiful, smooth stretches of road, don't immediately start worrying about the next hill.

Stop.

Look around.

Breathe it in.

Be grateful for where you are, where you've been, and even for some of those hard climbs that taught you things about yourself you may never have learned any other way.

Because this is your life.

Not just the destination.

Not just the mountaintop.

The entire journey.

And every bit of it is teaching you something about the woman you are becoming.

I'm still learning.

I'm still practicing.

I'm still becoming.

We all are.

Keep believing. Keep showing up. Keep becoming.

You don't need permission.

You are the permission.

Returning

On Monday, August 3, our family fulfilled Grandma Chris's final wish.

She now rests beside Matt.

Before the Mass and burial, I wrote that I had no idea what to expect. I had decided not to make assumptions about how the day would unfold. I knew the marble would have to be opened. I knew I would see Matt's casket again.

I just wasn't prepared for what my heart and body would remember the moment I did.

When we arrived where Matt rests, the marble cover had already been removed. For the first time in nearly eighteen years, I saw his black chrome casket again.

His MG707FF license plate was exactly where I remembered it.

Beneath the license plate were the white gloves worn by Matt's family and friends as they carried his casket eighteen years ago. The moment I saw them, I wasn't standing at Grandma Chris's burial anymore. I was back at Matt's funeral, watching the people who loved him carry him to his final resting place.

In an instant, eighteen years disappeared.

My body began to shake as memories I hadn't expected came rushing back. I could feel the emotion throughout my entire body. The August heat only intensified what I was already feeling. I stayed through the service because I wanted to honor Grandma Chris, but I carried those emotions home with me.

The truth is, I know Matt isn't in that casket.

Just as I know Grandma Chris isn't there either.

I believe their spirits live on.

But seeing Matt's casket again reminded me of the day I had to say goodbye to my son's physical body.

For almost eighteen years, I have lived with the reality that I no longer get to hear Matt's laugh. I can't smell his cologne. I can't lovingly scold him for leaving his hair gel on the bathroom door handle. I don't get to hear him call me, "Mom."

Those ordinary moments ended the day he was murdered.

Knowing his spirit lives on brings me comfort.

It does not erase the pain of remembering the day we laid his body to rest.

Those two things can exist together.

One gives me hope.

The other reminds me how deeply I love my son.

Yesterday, I found myself returning to Matt's and Grandma Chris's resting place.

I didn't go because there was something that needed to be done.

I went because I needed to be there.

Family and friends had already stopped by, leaving beautiful fresh bouquets for Grandma Chris. Seeing them there reminded me how deeply she was loved.

I quietly removed the faded flowers from the wall vases and replaced them with soft, light-colored ones. Then I added a few small lights.

Grandma Chris's name and photograph have not yet been added to the marble, but I don't need them to know she is there. On Monday, I stood with my family and watched as she was placed beside Matt, exactly where she wanted to be.

As I stood there this evening, I realized I was still carrying Monday with me.

Returning wasn't about trying to erase the pain of seeing Matt's casket again.

It was about giving myself permission to simply be there.

To stand quietly.

To straighten the flowers.

To look at the fresh bouquets left by family and friends.

To remember.

Grief has taught me that healing doesn't always happen by moving away from the places that hold our deepest sorrow.

Sometimes healing comes by returning to them with love.

As I stood there quietly, I realized something else.

One was my son.

The other came into my life when I was fifteen years old. Nearly forty-five years later, I stood beside her one last time, grateful for every year she loved me, challenged me, encouraged me, and became one of the women who helped shape my life.

Both left an imprint on my heart that will remain for the rest of my life.

I left with tears in my eyes, but also with gratitude.

Gratitude that I had nearly forty-five years with Grandma Chris.

Gratitude that she trusted me to help her prepare for her final wishes.

Gratitude that those wishes were fulfilled.

And gratitude that love endures.

Together again.

Together Again

This morning we begin preparing for Grandma Chris's Mass and burial.

As I sit quietly with my coffee, I notice something unexpected. I don't feel overwhelmed by sadness. More than anything, I feel grateful.

I'm grateful that I had so many conversations with Grandma Chris in these last years. Grateful that I got to bake sourdough bread for her, take her to the dentist, and simply spend time with her. Those ordinary moments have become extraordinary gifts. I'm grateful for a lifetime of memories.

I feel especially honored that she trusted me to help her prepare for what she knew was coming. She asked me if I would help her choose her urn and the keepsake urns for her grandchildren. I've often wondered why she asked me. Maybe losing Matt changed the way I talk about death. I don't know. I never asked. I only know that it was a privilege to help her make those decisions.

She picked each one herself. She chose hummingbirds because they were her favorite.

What a privilege that was.

I think losing Matt changed something deep inside me. After Matt was murdered, my relationship with death changed forever. I no longer see it as something to avoid talking about or pretend won't come. Instead, I've come to believe there is a gift in preparing and in making your wishes known. I love that Grandma Chris was able to choose the urn she wanted, the one that reflected who she was.

This morning, though, I noticed another feeling quietly making its way into my heart.

Today Grandma Chris will be placed beside Matt.

I found myself wondering what that moment will look like. Will I see Matt's black chrome casket with his license plate on the end? Will those memories come rushing back?

Then I realized I'm trying to prepare myself for something I know nothing about.

The truth is, I have no idea how the funeral home will place Grandma Chris's hummingbird urn beside Matt. I don't know what I'll see or how I'll feel in that moment.

And maybe I don't need to know.

What I do know is this: Matt never had the chance to make these decisions. He never chose a casket. He never told us what kind of service he wanted. Those choices were stolen from him, and we had to make them while living through every parent's worst nightmare.

Grandma Chris was given something different. She was given the gift of choosing.

There is something beautiful about that.

As I prepare for today, I don't want to fill my mind with assumptions or fears about how it will unfold. I want to simply be present.

In the end, the details aren't what matter most.

What matters is that Grandma Chris will be exactly where she wanted to be.

Together again with Matt.

And somehow, in the grand scheme of things, that brings me peace.